You awake the next morning to the annoying, repetitive blaring of your alarm. You crack an eye open. It read 7:00 AM. At first you're concerned you'll be late for work, then you remember it's Saturday, your day off. Still, you alarm should be ringing at six o'clock, not seven.
You sit up and stretch, wincing as your back pops a little. To think, just last year you were still in your 30's. Middle age catches up fast. You look down to see you're fully dressed, and still wearing your shoes. You can't help but chuckle to yourself. You hadn't gone to bed fully dressed since your oldest son was born. You yawn and scratch your gut under your shirt, feeling the coarse hair on its round form. You really miss they days when you were in shape. As far as you can remember you hadn't had abs since you were in college.
You get out of bed and shake the stiffness out of your limbs. What had you been doing last night to come home so exhausted? You have vague memories of bowling, which was odd because you usually bowled on Wednesdays or Thursdays, not Fridays. You didn't much like the Friday crowd, especially that asshole Mark. You scratch your cheek, feeling the thick stubble. While you usually held off from shaving during the weekend, it feels particularly thick this morning. Your goatee could use a trim besides. You'd once considered buying that Just For Men stuff to cover up the grey in your hair and beard, but then you decided that there really wasn't much point. If you were going to go gray, then you were going to go gray. No point in hiding it.
Stumbling and still only half awake, you make your way out into the hall, passing Tim, who's carrying a big bowl of cereal and on his way to the living room to watch cartoons.
"Mornin', son," you mumble, stifling a yawn.
He beams up at you. "Morning, Dad!"
"What'cha eatin'?"
"Fruit Loops."
"Mmmm, boy." You tousle his hair and make your way into the kitchen. You're about to pull out the coffee mix when you see there's already a freshly brewed pot. You'd have to thank your wife for that, later. You pour yourself a cup and take a drink. Pitch black, just the way you like it.
After you down your mug, you make your way to your bathroom, only to find it's already occupied. Not wanting to disturb your wife, you instead go to the hall bathroom. You root around a bit before finding your extra disposable razors. You lather your cheeks up with shaving cream and slide the razor over your skin, sheering the stubble and cream away. A few minutes later, you're almost done with the ritual when you hear a familiar voice.
"Mornin', son." The voice is deep with a bit of rumble.
"Morning, Dad!"
"Watch'cha eatin'?" You recognize the voice. But it's your voice. How could that be?
"They're still Fruit Loops, Dad."
"Mmmm, boy!"
You hear heavy footsteps pace up to the bathroom door. There are a couple heavy knocks on the door.
"Son?" the voice rumbles. "Don't forget you have soccer practice, today."
The footsteps then move away from the door.
You wipe the remaining shaving cream from your face, revealing your newly smooth cheeks. You decide to risk it and open the door a crack, peering out into the hall. You see a man from behind. He's of good size, decently muscled, but looking a little wide at the waist. He has black hair with specks of gray in it. You note the hair on the back of his head looks a little thinner than the rest of his otherwise thick hair. When he reaches your oldest son's door he turns to the side and peeks in through the doorway. He has your face. He's you! But that's impossible!
You close the door again, before he can see you. You look back into the mirror. You were the only you that you knew of. You examine your face, a little weathered, but strong, your high forehead creased with concern. You look down at your hands, the palms calloused from hard work and the backs covered in black hair. Past your hands you see your none too large gut, the result of too much beer, stress, and age. Past your stomach you see you're still wearing your shoes.
There's something important about your shoes. You know there is, you just can't remember what it was. They're the brown loafers you usually wear on your way to go bowling, or on your days off. They were none too special. Maybe it wasn't the shoes. You tug up on your right pants leg, revealing a sock. The sock looks like most, but you can just make out something unique. You sit on the toilet lid and position your right foot on your left knee, peering closely at the ankle of your sock. You can just make out green pinstripes running vertically along the length of the sock.
But you just can’t remember what. You then turn your attention to your doppelgänger
“You, what are you doing in my house” you say with a growl
The man who stands before you looks equally enraged
Just then, the doorbell rings
Both of you open it
It’s your son’s friends, Colby and George
They both have equally terrified faces
The second you opens his mouth
“Um hey guy he’s not up yet”
It’s your turn to speak
“And we kinda have a situation”
“Quickly, which one has the socks” Colby cried
“Um, that one” George said, noticing your socks
The two kids drag you out of the house